


Though it may look like a disaster

by swatkat



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Desert Island Fic, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-24
Updated: 2011-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-16 00:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swatkat/pseuds/swatkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Merlin and Arthur are stranded on a deserted island. There's a lion, and some powerful magic.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Though it may look like a disaster

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: 'island', a canon-ish AU. This story's relationship to actual mythology is more tenuous than the show's relationship to history. Title from Elizabeth Bishop, "One Art." It was originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/camelotsolstice/44750.html).

  
**Title:** _ **Though it may look like a disaster**_  
 **Author** / **Artist:** [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=swatkat24)[**swatkat24**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=swatkat24)  
 **Recipient:** **camelotsolstice**  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Character(s)** / **Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Word Count:** 11,320  
 **Summary:** _Merlin and Arthur are stranded on a deserted island. There's a lion, and some powerful magic._

 **Notes:** For the prompt: 'island', a canon-ish AU. This story's relationship to actual mythology is more tenuous than the show's relationship to history. Title from Elizabeth Bishop, "One Art." It was originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/camelotsolstice/44750.html).

+

  
  
'Well isn't this just _great_ ,' Arthur says. 'We're stranded!'

Arthur is soaked from head to toe, water streaming down his face, his neck. His nose has turned an unattractive shade of red. For all his bellowing, Arthur right now looks less like the crown prince of Camelot and more, well, if Merlin has to be completely honest, like a drowned rat, the Excalibur hanging comically by his side.

'It's the work of magic,' Merlin nods sagely. 'Powerful magic.'

He imagines he looks a bit drowned rat-like himself, what with all the water dripping and clothes sticking to his skin. His mouth tastes of salt.

'Yourmagic is what _got_ us here,' Arthur yells, now veering from angry to downright irrational. Merlin can't say he is surprised, Arthur is astonishingly like his father sometimes.

'My magic saved your life,' he is forced to point out. A little gratitude would be nice.

'And my ship? My men?' Arthur says, eyes beginning to bulge in an alarming fashion. 'Do you have _any_ idea where they are? Do you have any idea where _we_ might be?'

'A magical island?' Merlin hazards a guess. Or a magical continent, who can tell? He isn't the expert navigator in this scenario, just the guy who saves lives with magic. Arthur's life, at least, since the knights and the sailors and the assorted other members of the prince's retinue are nowhere to be seen. There isn't even the faintest trace of shipwreck _anywhere_ —and Merlin has witnessed his share of them in his brief years in Camelot. All he sees is sand, miles and miles of it. Grey skies, seawater and endless white waves.

The air smells of magic.

'A magical island,' Arthur says. He shakes his head, incredulous, and then his shoulders begin to sag, as though in surrender. 'Why not?'

'That was no natural storm,' Merlin says. 'You saw the waves.'

They both did, the sky breaking open and the sea rising, straining to swallow them— _Arthur_ —whole.

'This is why I don't like magic,' Arthur mutters, but there's no sting to it, none of the venom Merlin has encountered all too often in Camelot. He lets it slide—good things seldom happen to Arthur when magic is involved. Except Merlin himself, that is.

'Can you do something about this?' Arthur says after a moment's silence, pointing at his wet clothes. 'Put your magic to some use.'

Merlin can, in fact. These are spells he perfected years ago, as a young, accident-prone boy in Ealdor. 'I was waiting for you to ask nicely,' Merlin says.

1.

Merlin doesn't care very much for sea voyages. He doesn't care very much for ships, for that matter, or, more importantly, their disturbing tendency to sink ever so often. The first time he saw the _Pridwen_ , he wasn't even paying a lot of attention—it was his day off, and Gwen had dragged him to the harbour, despite protests.

The seaport is Camelot's lifeblood, its pride and glory, the largest and grandest in all of Albion. Merchants from far and wide travel all the way to Camelot to trade their ware in the marketplace—grain, precious stones, fabric unlike anything you'll ever see in the backwoods of Ealdor, or indeed, anywhere else in Albion. And then there is the navy, strong and proud, guarding Camelot's waters from pirates and invaders alike.

Merlin was just starting out at that time, fresh from the country and unused to the splendour of Camelot after a lifetime at Ealdor. He appreciates the grand vessels, truly—the gleaming merchant ships with their many-coloured flags, and the sleek warships, King Uther's pride—but not quite the way Gwen appreciates—no, _loves_ —them. Gwen grew up in Camelot, with the ships and the sea and the tales of her grandfather, the sailor, who arrived—once upon a time—from a faraway land and fell in love with the beautiful maiden who would later become Gwen's grandmother. The sea is in her blood. And so on that day Gwen dragged him to the harbour and swooned at the sight of the Pridwen's fair sails whilst Merlin spent most of his time glaring at the people who elbowed past him, unconcerned, rubbing at the salt and moisture sticking to his skin, wrinkling his nose at the omnipresent fish smell.

On their way back they bought sweet honeyed rolls and fresh bread from the baker. 'Isn't she lovely?' Gwen said. 'Camelot's finest.'

'Mmm-hmm,' Merlin nodded, his mouth full. In truth, he couldn't tell. He did not particularly care.

Later, the sea smell would grow familiar: sticking to his nostrils as he cleaned the sand from Arthur's boots and washed the salt off his tunics, until it became— _almost_ —bearable.

Later still, when Morgana left, Merlin was briefly aboard the _Pridwen_ with Arthur, as they scoured the waters on a hopeless search for someone who did not intend to be found. It was a dark, foggy day, and the sea was restless, dangerous.

Morgana chose a life on these waters. Merlin couldn't imagine why anyone would want that.

He certainly can't imagine it _now_ , after a few days on the sea aboard the _Pridwen_ , on his way to Lord Godwyn's realm as a part of the prince's retinue—his first proper voyage, as Arthur pointed out with a delighted clap on his back.

Arthur loves the sea. Left to his own devices, he would spend every waking hour at the dock, fawning over the ships and steering them into the water.

This isn't a surprise to anyone—well, to anyone except Merlin, who has now grown to accept the madness, even if he can't quite understand it. The Pendragons have always been seafarers. In his youth, King Uther—he was just a nobleman's youngest son, then, a fierce and ambitious warrior feared by many—travelled far and wide on the legendary _Morning Star_ , conquering many a kingdom, giving shape to what Camelot is today.

'You don't have to come,' Arthur had said on the eve of their journey. 'Not if you don't want to. I know you're not used to it.'

'That's absurd,' Merlin told him. 'I'm coming with you.'

Arthur had been on shorter voyages in the past, and Merlin found himself fretting each time, resorting, at times, to scrying—a (dull, dull) art he is yet to fully master—to know for certain that he's alive, safe. It is, after all, his job to be at Arthur's side, always, and personally ensure his safety.

The ship lurches violently to one side, and Merlin clutches at the rails, trying very hard not to be sick, sincerely reconsidering his decision to come along. He doesn't care for ships. He doesn't care for the sea. He doesn't care for sea voyages. It's _all_ madness.

+

After nearly a fortnight of outright misery, Merlin finds himself growing more used to the pitching and rolling of the _Pridwen_. He's grown quite fond of his usual spot atop a pile of unused ropes on the deck, especially the way he can stretch out on them and fall asleep, hands folded underneath his head. He can walk about freely, now, and it's been a whole day since he's thrown up.

'Now that's more like it,' Gwaine says when he spots Merlin _walking_ —a change from his routine of rushing to the railings and being sick. 'Found your sea legs, eh?' He claps him enthusiastically on the back.

'About time,' Arthur says, from his position at the helm. 'How long has it been again?'

'How long what?' Merlin says, sullen.

In response, Arthur clutches his stomach and mimes a heaving motion. 'How long?' he smirks.

'A day,' Merlin has to admit, and Arthur breaks out in uproarious laughter. 'I'm glad you find that funny,' Merlin says, and Arthur merely laughs harder. Merlin contemplates singeing off his eyebrows—and Gwaine's too, since he's laughing hysterically as well, and maybe his beard.

He did that once, by accident—shortly after the King's tenuous treaty with the sorceress Nimueh, the High Priestess of Avalon and the leader of the magical alliance—and Arthur had to go an entire day without his eyebrows, before Merlin could find a way to restore them with Gaius' assistance. It was a great blow to Arthur's vanity, and Merlin likes to repeat the threat every now and then.

He says so now, and Arthur says, 'For a threat like that, Merlin, I could have you fed to the sharks,' eyes sparkling with mirth.

'You could try,' Merlin says, grinning. 'Wait, there are sharks in these parts?'

'Lots,' Gwaine says, solemn. 'Punched one myself. Right on the nose,' he says, making a fist. 'Very effective.'

And this is why Merlin doesn't care for sea voyages. Even if he's certain it's a blatant lie.

'Are you all right?' Arthur says. 'You look a little green.' His grin is positively wicked.

+

Another week—in the course of which Merlin only throws up twice—and they arrive at Devil's Gate, where they will pause for a day to stock up on supplies and fresh water.

Devil's Gate once had a name—a rather ordinary one, in fact. They called the place Clearwater, and so it is labelled on maps even now. Of how the innocuously-named Clearwater became the Devil's Gate of infamy there are stories—all fantastic tales, of fearsome pirates, bloody battles and powerful magic. Only one thing remains true, an immutable fact: Clearwater, claimed by Camelot, Mercia and Cenred alike and ruled by none, is better known today as Devil's Gate, a once-strategic port now over-run with pirates, brigands and ruffians of all sorts.

'It would perhaps be better if we sail for another week and anchor at Brightshore,' Lancelot suggests, but Arthur will have none of that.

'We'll stop at Devil's Gate,' he says, and that is that. It is nothing but _inviting_ trouble, so of course Arthur finds the notion extremely appealing.

As it is, Merlin is not particularly surprised that one of their very first encounters at Devil's Gate involves trouble herself: Morgana. Dressed in black leather breeches and an ornate dress-shirt, a jaunty pirate's hat atop her head, Morgana looks nothing like the fine lady Merlin had once known. She looks like a pirate, through and through—albeit a clean and somewhat refined one.

Morgana doesn't smile and doesn't spare Merlin a glance—not surprising, they did not part on friendly terms—and says, 'You shouldn't have come here, Arthur,' foregoing all pleasantries.

'Morgana,' Arthur says stiffly. 'I should've known you would be here.' Merlin cannot help but wonder if he had counted on it.

'Of course I am,' she says. 'I'm a pirate. You and your men should leave right now, before you get into any trouble.' Merlin feels a shiver run down his spine.

'I'm not afraid of pirate scum, if that's what you are saying,' Arthur says.

Morgana doesn't rise to the bait, saying, 'Believe me, there are far worse things to be.'

She storms off without another word, her black cape billowing ominously behind her. Merlin feels chilled to the bone, replaying her warning over and over in his mind. Foresight was one of Morgana's magical gifts, and Merlin can't tell if her words were simple caution, or if there was something more to it.

+

There is, in fact, very little trouble—some heated arguments over prices of supply, a couple of minor scuffles and a broken nose ('He started it,' Gwaine says, sporting a split lip; Lancelot quickly pays the boy's master a few gold coins, which is enough to silence further complaints); nothing to warrant serious concern. Arthur spends the rest of the day in a foul mood, glowering at all and sundry and drinking too quickly in the tavern later that evening, ignoring the songs of the drunken sailors, as well as the friendly smiles of the pretty barmaid.

Arthur is steady on his feet on their way back, lucid and upright despite the liquor. Gwaine, of course, is completely sloshed, and Merlin half-carries him to the ship while he paws at Merlin's chest, saying, 'You're really great, you know?'

'I know I am,' Merlin grins.

'You're a good friend,' Gwaine says. 'I'm going to sing a song for you.'

'You don't have to—'

'To celebrate our friendship!' he proclaims, and promptly breaks into song—a rather dirty song about a pretty lad's bottom, from what Merlin can gather—nearly falling over in the process. It's all very chaotic after that, with everyone else joining in—all except Arthur, who merely stares, glassy-eyed—so they don't really notice the drunk stranger until they're all on board and he's right in front of Arthur, winding his arms about his neck, saying, 'A fine ship you've got here, mate. Really nice.'

Arthur freezes. So does Merlin, and everyone else on the ship.

'I know,' Arthur says slowly, taking hold of the intruder's hands and pushing him away, bit by bit. Merlin hears the sound of swords being drawn.

'How much for it?' the man says, unconcerned. He's a tall man, well-dressed and powerfully-built. He's also very drunk, and in grave danger of being very, very dead.

'My ship is not for sale,' Arthur says. His voice could cut diamonds.

'I have an offer for you,' the man says, smiling. 'How about you give me this little boat of yours and take my grand vessel over there in return?'

The grand vessel in question appears to be a dinghy tied to the pier, bobbing up and down in the waves.

'How about I chop you to pieces and feed you to the fish?' Arthur says.

'That's _very_ rude, sir—' the man begins to say, and then there's a dozen hands dragging him away, and the loud splash of someone being dropped unceremoniously into the sea.

'How did he get in here?' Arthur says, hands on his hips.

'He probably followed us from the tavern,' Lancelot says, bowing his head.

'We have to be more careful,' Arthur says, shaking his head. He leaves without another word. Merlin heaves a sigh of relief.

+

They set sail the following morning. Reputation and Morgana's chilling words notwithstanding, Devil's Gate has been surprisingly trouble free, apart from the minor skirmishes and that odd altercation with the drunken intruder. And yet, he feels uneasy, as though something's not quite right, even if he can't put his finger to it.

He settles himself on his seat atop the pile of ropes, and watches the ship pull away, the pier growing smaller and smaller. The dinghy—their intruder's grand vessel—is still tied to the pier, a small dark speck amidst the white waves.

The sense of unease increases as they leave shallower waters behind them, steadily gaining pace. The sea is perfectly calm, the sun playing on the water in myriad patterns of light and shade. 'You all right?' Lancelot asks him, no doubt noticing the way he's been staring at the sea, scowling. 'Are you feeling sick?'

'I'm fine,' Merlin says, ignoring the queasy sensation in his gut. Something's not right. He only wishes he knew _what_.

Shortly after noon, the sky begins to darken, rainclouds gathering with alarming swiftness. A soft drizzle soon follows, and Lancelot says, 'You shouldn't be here, Merlin. We might be in for some rough weather.'

'How rough?' Merlin asks.

'Rough,' Lancelot says. 'We're already a bit off-course.'

Rough weather turns out to be an understatement, because the soft drizzle soon becomes a persistent, pouring shower, the wind growing stronger and waves more fierce. To Merlin the sea appears almost spiteful, coming alive in malevolent splendour as it rises higher and higher, intent, as though, to bury them. The ship is a mere leaf against its malice, trembling.

'Why are you still here?' says a voice—Arthur—half-shouting to be heard over the wind. Arthur is at the helm, of course, steering, striving to hold the ship steady, fighting, it seems, a near-impossible battle against the sky and the sea. 'Go away,' he yells. 'Now.'

In truth, Merlin has no great desire to face down the furious waters, but there's something about the air that makes him pause, hanging on to the railing with all his might while Camelot's finest vessel sways precariously on the waves.

A towering wave launches itself upon them, sky-high, and for a moment Merlin fears it will sweep Arthur away. Arthur, however, holds steady, unmoved by the waves that appear hell-bent to consume him, swallow him whole.

This is no ordinary tempest, Merlin thinks.

Things fall into place, then: the violence of the waves, the seeming malevolence of the sea. Merlin concentrates on repelling the waves, forcing them back, determined to keep them away from Arthur, to keep him safe.

It becomes a fierce battle of wills—Merlin's magic, frail and human, against that of the elements. He can feel his grip slipping, and focuses harder, summoning every last scrap of his strength.

'Merlin, what are you doing?' he can hear Arthur say, incensed. 'I _told_ you to leave.'

'Magic,' he explains, concentrating on the waves that keep on coming, endless, tireless. 'This is magic.' Let me have Arthur, the waves seem to be saying, and Merlin only thinks, _you can't_.

2.

'There's no one here,' Arthur announces. Somewhat unnecessarily, since Merlin's already aware of the same. They've scoured the entire length of the beach, and there's nothing here but sand, endless sand and some rocks, with a few seagulls for company. 'Looks like it's just you and me, Merlin,' he says, seating himself beside Merlin on the sand.

There's no trace of anyone else in the crew, or that of a shipwreck, for that matter. Merlin wonders where they are, if they're safe and alive, if Gwaine's legendary luck has somehow helped them escape unscathed after all. Merlin hopes they are safe—the alternative is unthinkable. 'Perhaps the forest has inhabitants,' he suggests.

'Then I hope they don't mind our company,' Arthur says.

'I could light a beacon,' Merlin says. 'There might be ships nearby.' Unless, of course, the island has some sort of a magical cover that prevents exposure.

'You could,' Arthur says. He doesn't sound very hopeful about the possibility of a rescue. The _Pridwen_ was off-course even before the storm struck.

They sit side by side and watch the sun dissolve into the sea in myriad shades of yellow and orange.

Just the two of them, Merlin and Arthur. It could've been worse, he supposes.

+

They camp near a small alcove by the shore, spotted in the course of their initial explorations, and connected, as they learned, to a thin stream that disappears into the forest. The water tastes faintly brackish, but it's better than seawater. Merlin doesn't think he'd enjoy dying of thirst very much.

The alcove is surrounded by a few trees. Merlin gathers firewood and prepares a small fire. 'We'll need to eat something,' Arthur says, thoughtful.

'I spotted some berries in a bush near this place,' Merlin says. 'They looked edible.'

Arthur makes a face. 'Can't you just conjure some food?'

'It doesn't work like that,' Merlin tells him. 'There are rules.' Rules that—if truth be told—he doesn't really _know_ as such, only that when he tried to conjure a roast chicken on Will's request, it tasted vaguely of mud and made them both very, very sick. Gaius once attempted to explain the principle, but Merlin fell asleep halfway through the lecture.

'You're not very good at this, are you?' Arthur says with a smirk.

'You're not very attached to your eyebrows, are you?' Merlin retorts. 'How would you like a demonstration?'

They make do with berries.

+

Merlin wakes to the sound of waves, and the squawking of what seems to be a choir of birds of all shapes and sizes, welcoming the day with great gusto. Beside him, Arthur is still fast asleep, oblivious to the racket.

Merlin makes his way to the seashore, watching the new sun rise out of the sea. Every now and then, he stops to pick up seashells that catch his eye. It's very pleasant. He could close his eyes and pretend he's on a retreat of sorts—a retreat by the sea, with just Arthur for company. Arthur, warm and pliant, pinned to the sandy ground while Merlin kisses his way down his body.

It's very pleasant, and, of course, utterly absurd. Merlin's a fool for harbouring such fancies, even if he can't quite bring himself to let them go. They make his heart leap and his cock hard—rather inconvenient, now that it's just the two of them on this island.

He doesn't even notice the footprints at first, engrossed as he is in his wayward thoughts. Arthur's voice snaps him back to reality. 'What's that?' Arthur says, pointing to what appears to be a set of pawprints, emerging, it seems, from somewhere in the forest and disappearing straight into the sea. A fairly large creature, from what Merlin can tell.

'Do you recognise the animal?' Merlin asks Arthur, who shakes his head.

'I'm not sure,' he says, scowling.

His scowl grows more pronounced as the day progresses. He spends most of it in silence, staring off into a distance, deep in thought. When Merlin finally starts gathering—well, _summoning_ , by magic—enough wood for the beacon, Arthur fishes out a dagger from his boot and proceeds to tear off stripes of bark off a nearby tree.

'What are you doing?' Merlin asks, curious.

'Weapons,' Arthur mutters vaguely, 'we need weapons.'

Merlin sets to his own task, piling up the wood higher and higher. If the island _is_ protected by some sort of a magical shield, he can't detect it.

The beacon, when it's finally lit, is magnificent and sky-high, enough, Merlin hopes, to catch the attention of a passing ship or two.

+

The next few days are beset with weapons, and Arthur labouring away like a man possessed, occasionally barking instructions for Merlin to carry out. Merlin spends most of his time lounging about on the beach, enjoying the warm sun. It's nice. There's no a sign of a rescue ship anywhere in the horizon.

Very soon, Arthur manages to add a spear and crude little bow to his arsenal, appearing very pleased with himself. The spear, in particular, proves to be very useful for catching fish, and Arthur emerges from the water, triumphant, saying, 'Can you at least cook?'

'Sure,' Merlin nods. In truth, it was always his mum who cooked in Ealdor, making do with their scarce provisions. In Camelot there was Gaius, who preferred to cook for both of them—and the castle's kitchens certainly never ran short of food. But Merlin can _try_.

They make a meal out of coconuts and roasted—charred, really—fish. It's better than the berries.

+

They wait. There's not much to do on the island apart from gathering food and preparing meals. Merlin appreciates the white sands and the warm sun, he does, truly, but the sands and the sun do not have much to offer in terms of variety or excitement. Sometimes Merlin sits by the shore and counts the waves.

Arthur devotes most of his time to the care of his beloved weaponry, now sharpening the Excalibur, now fussing over his new spear, now tightening the strings of his makeshift bow, now chasing after birds in search of feathers for the arrows—it's dizzying.

A deserted island is _tedious_ , and Merlin finds himself longing for something— _anything_ —to happen.

He gets his wish one morning, in the shape of more mysterious footprints in the sand.

'It's clearly a large creature,' Merlin muses, kneeling on the wet sand to examine the prints. 'It could be a dangerous predator.'

'It is a dangerous predator,' Arthur says.

'How—'

'It's a lion,' Arthur says. 'Look.'

Merlin has never seen a lion outside of images, but there's no mistaking the creature Arthur is pointing to.

It should be less astonishing—Camelot's surroundings are infested with fantastic creatures, and Merlin has met, and sometimes fought, his share of them in his time in Camelot. There's a large dragon underneath Uther's castle who believes Merlin has a destiny, whatever that might be. A lion is certainly less bizarre than an omniscient, talking dragon, and yet there's something about the creature—an aura, perhaps, as Gaius would say. A _look_ in its yellow gaze. An air of magic.

3.

'Are you sure this is good idea?' Merlin says, for the third time since they embarked on their quest to track the lion. The very large lion of possibly magical origin, which has been leaving mysterious pawprints on the sand ever since their first night on this island. Merlin can think of countless reasons why this is a very bad idea. 'Your weapons, um, aren't exactly suited for slaying such a large beast.' To state the obvious. 'Well, perhaps your sword, but you shouldn't be getting that close to the lion in the first place.'

'Hush,' Arthur says, bent over a small patch of grass. 'I'm trying to concentrate.' Merlin gets the feeling he's _enjoying_ himself. It's almost as if that lion is big game, and they're just out on another hunt.

At least, Merlin thinks, Arthur is carrying his own weapons for a change.

After a while, it becomes extremely clear that they've lost track of the creature altogether. They haven't ventured into the forest before this, and Merlin strongly feels they should continue on that vein. 'Shouldn't we be going back to the beach?' Merlin says. It feels like the sensible thing to do.

'And do what?' Arthur says, naturally, rejecting Merlin's very sensible proposition. 'Do you propose we _sit_ there for the rest of our lives?'

'I could light another beacon,' Merlin offers. 'A bigger one.'

'And wait. Until someone, someday comes to our rescue,' Arthur says scornfully. There isn't much Merlin can offer in response. The wait has been tedious, and even more so for Arthur, who does not take well to forced inaction.

Merlin sighs. 'We should keep close to the stream,' he says.

+

They walk until mid-day, at which point Arthur spots a rabbit, fat and sleek, soaking in the sun in a small clearing nearby.

'We're eating rabbit tonight,' Arthur announces, already reaching for his improvised bow and arrows. 'Wait here.'

'Don't go too far,' Merlin calls out, but he isn't certain if Arthur is paying attention anymore.

As Merlin suspected. Arthur _is_ enjoying himself.

+

The rabbit makes for an excellent meal.

+

The next couple of days involve further aimless walking, and Arthur attempting to kill every small animal that comes their way. For his own part, Merlin tries to collect roots and herbs for future consumption, trying to recall Gaius' lessons and failing miserably. In retrospect, perhaps he should have been paying more attention. If Gaius were here, he would have taken great pleasure in saying so.

The lion appears to have vanished in thin air—a likely thing, if it is a creature of magic. Arthur kicks him awake one night, claiming to have heard a rustling sound in the bushes. They stay up for most of the night after that, waiting for a sound, or a movement—that is to say, Arthur stays up, alert and watchful, periodically poking a dozing Merlin from time to time, hissing, 'Don't sleep, Merlin. _Wake up_!'

The lion, however, does not oblige. Arthur sleeps until noon the next day.

They venture deeper into the forest that day, following the stream against its current. The trees seem to be larger in stature here, and somewhat intimidating. After a while, it begins to rain.

'We have to look for shelter,' Merlin tells Arthur.

'I think we passed a cave in there,' Arthur says.

It will do.

+

There's something odd about the cave. Merlin feels it the moment he steps inside: traces of ancient magic, calling to his own. It's a curious sensation, as though he's being observed and examined. It makes him feel exposed, vulnerable.

Still, they're both wet and a little cold—the cave is dry enough, and large enough to comfortably accommodate the two of them. It will do. It'll have to.

Merlin finds himself staring at the way the wet shirt clings to Arthur's chest, drawing attention to his strong, broad shoulders. For a moment, Merlin wants nothing more than to place his hands on Arthur's shoulder blades and lick the small droplets of water sticking to his skin. He'll be cool to touch, Merlin imagines, slowly warming up with every stroke of Merlin's tongue.

Such thoughts are madness, and so he forces himself to look away, concentrate on more important things: a spell to dry their wet clothing, a spell to gather the dried twigs and branches scattered at the entrance of the cave, a spell to set them all aflame. A protective ward at the entrance, to keep the outside world at bay.

Arthur's eyes follow him, curious. When Merlin can finally bring himself to turn and face Arthur, Arthur is still looking at him, his expression unreadable, unlike anything Merlin has seen on his face so far. It makes him nervous. Merlin can't imagine why.

Their evening meal is mostly silent, consisting of berries and dried fish. Merlin hovers near the entrance of the cave, watching the endless, pouring rain.

'Sit down, Merlin,' Arthur says, clearing his throat. 'Stop fidgeting.'

'I'm not fidgeting,' Merlin protests, even though he is. Jumpy. Restless.

They're alone here, he and Arthur. The thought bears down upon him, makes him wish for impossible things.

'Yes you are,' Arthur insists, sounding extremely put off. 'Stop it.'

Merlin sighs, and sits down beside the fire. Arthur follows suit, seating himself beside Merlin with a heavy thud, not quite touching. It's comfortable. Warm.

'Are you all right?' Arthur says.

'Of course. Why shouldn't I be?' Merlin says, and nearly jumps out of his skin when Arthur places a warm, heavy palm on his shoulder.

'You're usually chattier,' Arthur says, smiling. 'I have to _order_ you to shut up.'

Arthur's hand on his shoulder—nothing out of the ordinary. Arthur touches people all the time. Arthur touches _Merlin_ all the time. It's Merlin's mind, surely, _imagining_ the way his touch lingers and the odd, dazed expression on his face.

'I thought you said you enjoyed the silence,' Merlin says. He tries to gather his thoughts, but it's hard when Arthur is _looking_ at him like that, as though, as though he wants to—

At the touch of Arthur's lips, his mind goes mercifully blank, devoid of any other thought except that of kissing Arthur, all his blood rushing southward. Arthur's lips are full— _pretty_ , Merlin thinks, his fingers rough where they cling to Merlin's skin. Merlin kisses him harder, tongue plunging into his mouth, seeking, drawing small sounds from Arthur. It's perfect. It's brilliant and magical and everything else it's supposed to be, it's—

Magic. Of course.

Merlin shoves Arthur away, breathing very hard. Arthur stares at him, bemused. 'What? Why did you stop?'

That _look_ in his eyes, _of course_.

Merlin has wanted this for a long time, but this isn't how he wished for this to happen. An unforeseen enchantment, and the inevitable end: Arthur coming to his senses.

'This isn't—I mean, I'm not—' The words stick to his throat, bitter. He's wanted this for such a long time and he's so stupidly hard, and this isn't how he wished for this to happen at all.

'You're not what?' Arthur says, drawing close again, placing his hands on Merlin's shoulders. His eyes are wide, serious. Merlin feels like he'll never breathe again.

'This is magic,' he tells Arthur. 'The cave. _This_.'

'It's an island full of enchantments, Merlin,' Arthur says, rolling his eyes as though Merlin is being particularly dim. 'I'm capable of working the rest out by myself.'

'And you still, you want to—'

'Unless you don't,' Arthur says, eyes narrowing, and Merlin says, 'No, no, I want to,' quickly, _shamelessly_ , because he truly does. Spell or no, he can't recall a time when he didn't want Arthur.

'Good,' Arthur says softly, lifting a hand to caress Merlin's jaw, his ear. It's oddly gentle, belying the rough insistence of their kiss. It does nothing to lessen the hammering of Merlin's heart.

Everything happens very fast after that. Merlin wants to draw out the moment, slow down time with a wave of his hand and _memorise_ —the vague scent of rain, the feel of Arthur's lips and his stubble on Merlin's skin, the shudder that runs through him when Merlin closes his hand around the firm length of his cock. But Arthur, Arthur's impatient, pushing Merlin down and holding him there, restless hands running all over his body, the hard ridge of his cock rubbing against Merlin's own.

The spell will break and Arthur will no longer want this.

The thought chases away all restraint, every last shred of his desire—however absurd—to resist the enchantment. Powerful magic floods his veins as he pulls Arthur close and kisses him, hard. They grind against each other with little grace, desperation spilling out with every touch. Merlin grasps at memories amidst the haze, the scratch and slide of skin on skin and Arthur, pliant, Arthur, willing, _wanting_.

+

Merlin wakes up with his arms around Arthur, warm and absolutely sated. He unwraps himself slowly, careful not to rouse Arthur.

It's a beautiful morning, bright and golden, no sign of rain clouds anywhere in the horizon. Whatever madness had gripped them is gone.

+

They walk the rest of the day in silence, Merlin purposely marching ahead of Arthur. The forest appears to be growing thicker, making movement all the more difficult. Merlin concentrates on _not stumbling and falling on his face_ , which at least keeps his mind occupied. Every now and then they pause to scrape marks on trunks of trees. Merlin leaves his signature on each mark, visible only at his command.

The forest is unusually quiet that day, no trace of creatures of any sort, let alone large, possibly magical lions.

They camp at sundown. Merlin engages himself in making a fire and preparing the remains of the last rabbit for the evening's meal. He felt Arthur's eyes on him all day as he trudged after Merlin in uncharacteristic silence, almost as though _willing_ Merlin to speak. Merlin has been grateful for the silence, but he knows it cannot—will not—last. For all that he was raised among courtiers, Arthur has no use for secrets or intrigue.

Merlin knows about keeping secrets. Secrets, sometimes, are a necessary evil, and Merlin has learned to live with it. Arthur, of course, will have none of that, demanding, always, absolute clarity, with the bright certainty of one who has never needed to keep his own secrets, never had his life depend on that very ability.

He isn't surprised when Arthur comes to stand before him, his expression a mix of determination and annoyance. The fire casts a strange shadow of his on the ground where Merlin has been tracing idle shapes with his fingers. 'Would you rather I hit you with my sword and _make_ you talk?' Arthur says, without preamble.

'What?' Merlin says defensively.

'Talk, Merlin,' Arthur says, now clearly impatient. 'Something's obviously bothering you, so out with it. Or I'll makeyou talk.' It's not particularly menacing.

'You're not very attached to your eyebrows, are you?' Merlin tells him. 'You did look nice without them. Regal. Like a—'

'Talk,' Arthur says, in no mood to be swayed by light-hearted banter. Merlin sighs.

He isn't sure where to begin, or if there are even words for the raw feeling in his gut. He looks at the ground, at his dust-covered hands, at the flames, everywhere but at Arthur, until he blurts, 'It wasn't me. My magic, I mean.'

'I thought that was clear,' Arthur says. When Merlin finally ventures a glance at Arthur again, he appears thunderous, eyebrows tightly knit together in displeasure.

'I know, I just—I would never do that to you.' His voice breaks a little in the end. Merlin can't even bring himself to be embarrassed.

'I know that,' Arthur says, still scowling. 'Did I give an impression otherwise?'

'No,' Merlin says. 'I just wanted you to know.' He looks away again. There's an iron fist around his heart, squeezing, merciless.

Sleep is hard to come by that night. Merlin lies awake, listening to night sounds—the faint rustle of leaves and crickets chirping. The sea, somewhere at a distance. Merlin thinks of Ealdor, of his mother going about everyday tasks in their small house. He hasn't been home in such a long time.

'You're not sleeping,' Arthur says, rolling onto his side to face Merlin.

'You're not sleeping, either,' Merlin points out.

'That's because I can _hear_ you think,' Arthur says. He sounds extremely put off, and Merlin can't help but smile when he says, 'I'm sorry. I'll try and keep it down, sire.'

'Good,' Arthur says. 'Because thinking isn't your strong point.' The insult is familiar, and oddly comforting. 'Now try and get some sleep,' he says, sounding almost affectionate. Merlin can feel the warmth pass from Arthur to himself and become his own.

'Yeah,' Merlin says, 'I will.'

It doesn't take long for Arthur to fall asleep. Merlin lies awake and watches the slow rise and fall of his chest.

He knows about keeping secrets. There's one secret that stands between them still, the first few moments in the cave, when it's magic—foreign, immensely powerful—reached out to his own and looked into his heart, manifested, Merlin thinks now, in the greatest illusion of them all: the shape of his heart's desire. Enchantments like that, they could drive a person to madness, offering them a glimpse of heaven only to snatch it away. He's read of such magic in Gaius' books. It would be just Merlin's luck to stumble into something as potent as that on this godforsaken island.

That is a secret he will have to keep, a secret he'll have to live with. For now.

+

In the course of their journey the following day, the forest appears to grow denser with every step, until they are reduced to hacking at vines and branches that seem intent on swallowing them whole.

'Ow,' Merlin says, after Arthur helps him dodge the loving embrace of a rather evil-looking vine. 'I hope that wasn't poisonous.'

'Shouldn't you be able to tell?' Arthur says, entirely unsympathetic. 'You've assisted Gaius for how long now?'

Healing magic is not one of his strengths, and truth be told, Merlin has not cared to learn much of Gaius' trade beyond fetching a herb or two, or ferrying medication for various denizens of the castle. 'Perhaps we should head back,' he says quickly, changing the subject. 'Go back to the beach.'

'And do what?' Arthur says.

'I don't know,' Merlin says. 'Build a boat, maybe? You know how to row, right?' He grins, knowing it will earn him a dirty look. Arthur, he suspects, learned to row and swim before he could speak. It was probably required learning for every infant in Camelot, while Merlin only learned to swim at the age of twelve on a dare with Will about walking on water.

'The forest looks different,' Arthur says, dubious, squinting at the trail of torn leaves and hacked branches they left at their wake. 'Finding our way back might be difficult.'

It does look different, Merlin has to agree. Thicker, almost as though it miraculously blossomed as soon as they turned their backs. Which is not at all beyond the realm of possibility in this wretched place.

'We left signs on the way,' Merlin says. 'How difficult can it be?'

+

It is. Very difficult, that is.

The forest, which has almost certainly miraculously grown as soon as they turned their backs, appears completely different. Even Merlin, with his feeble knowledge of plants and trees—despite Gaius' best efforts, he should add—can tell that at least _some_ of them were _not there_ when they passed this way. Such as the mid-sized ones that come up to his chest, with giant, round leaves, serrated at the edges like rows of teeth. Tiny, green, possibly _poisonous_ teeth. Or the ones with countless needle-like roots sprouting from the earth. The marks they'd scraped on select tree trunks appear to have vanished, as do some of the trees themselves. They follow Merlin's signs, which come into view once Merlin summons them, but Merlin can't shake off the feeling that they too have been tampered with.

And if that weren't enough, they seem to have ventured away from the stream at some point.

Sometimes, he doesn't like magic very much, either.

Beside him, Arthur marches onward without a word, grim, and Merlin thinks, a little unsure. For all the joy he takes in hunting and other on-ground activities, Arthur is more at home in the sea, in his true element while facing down turbulent waters and terrifying magical tempests. It should not be so surprising anymore—after all, not so long ago, Arthur's half-sister ran off with _her_ half-sister, leaving behind a life of comfort and opulence in Camelot for a lifetime of miserable villainy and piracy in the high seas. The madness is in their blood, nourished and fostered by the air of Camelot.

It's nearly twilight when they begin to approach something resembling familiar— _probably_ not populated by bloodthirsty foliage—terrain. Soon, the soil grows softer, the ground sprinkled with rocks and longish grass that comes up to their ankles. Merlin walks faster, ignoring his aching back and legs.

He can't resist a small whoop of delight when they finally spot the stream. Arthur rolls his eyes at Merlin, but he's smiling too. 'We're eating fish tonight,' he announces, brandishing his spear.

'If you can find any,' Merlin tells him, 'or it'll just be the berries again.'

Arthur does find some fish in the stream, and then sets about—voluntarily, Merlin must add—to prepare them with a child's glee. Merlin sits facing him and watches him work. The firelight makes him look different—thinner, his features sharper. It makes him look younger, almost, and more carefree than he's been since they set foot on this island.

The thought sends a warm pulse down his spine, unbidden, and Merlin has to look away.

The accursed cave, Merlin knows, isn't very far from where they are. He tries not to think about it. It's not easy at all.

+

Things become somewhat more complicated the next day.

They start off soon after daybreak, following Merlin's trail. By the time it's mid-day, Merlin begins to have the feeling that something's not quite right—a feeling he's experienced frequently in the past few days.

As the day progresses, the feeling grows, until they've arrived at what looks like very familiar territory: rocks of all sizes scattered on the ground and an abundance of green grass, coming up to their ankles. 'This can't be right,' Arthur says, scowling.

'I know,' Merlin says.

A few more steps, and they arrive at a small clearing. It's not very hard to spot the charred remains of a fire, and the empty coconut shell Merlin knows he had left behind.

'We've been going around in a circle,' Arthur says, throwing him a dirty look. 'I should've known better than to follow your directions, Merlin.'

The day after that, Merlin lets Arthur set course. It is evident now that his trail has been tampered with, as he had already suspected. Messing about with another sorcerer's spell can only be the work of some very powerful magic. Whoever— _whatever_ —they are up against could prove to be very dangerous indeed.

Nonetheless, he can't help relish the sense of vindication that he feels once it becomes apparent that they're on the same path as before. 'How is this possible?' Arthur growls.

'Looks like we've been going around in a circle,' Merlin says, innocent.

'This is magic,' Arthur says, jabbing an accusing finger on Merlin's chest. 'Evil magic.'

'It's not _my_ evil magic,' Merlin has to point out.

'You're a sorcerer,' Arthur says, with the happy certainty of the hopelessly non-magical. 'Figure something out.'

'It's not that simple!' Merlin protests. Sorcery, like everything else, has its own set of rules and limitations, the basics of which Merlin is only beginning to grasp, innate skill notwithstanding. Sorcery doesn't work miracles.

Arthur, of course, knows all of this. Nonetheless, he spends the rest of the evening being highly irrational, glowering at the fish and most likely holding Merlin responsible for the current state of affairs, even though it was _Arthur_ who led them all the way back to this place again. Typical.

+

They keep finding their way back to the same spot. Twice.

Merlin sits down heavily on the grass, letting despondence sink in. 'We're never getting out of the place,' he says, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his head on one knee. He feels exhausted, and a little cold.

'Don't be ridiculous, Merlin,' Arthur says. 'Of course we are.'

'We're going to go round in circles forever, and then we're going to die,' Merlin says. Somewhat melodramatically, he will admit, but the sentiment is entirely heartfelt.

'Merlin—'

'Or the lion will eat us,' he continues, inspired. The creature is after all a dangerous, probably magical beast on a dangerous, magic-infested island. Anything could happen.

'Merlin, listen to me,' Arthur says, placing a large, warm hand on Merlin's back. 'We're not going to be eaten by the lion, and we're not going to die.' He speaks slowly, carefully, as though speaking to a particularly skittish horse, and with absolute conviction. 'We're going to find a way out of this,' Arthur says, patting Merlin's back reassuringly, 'so stop crying.'

'I'm not crying,' Merlin says.

'I saw tears,' Arthur says, grinning.

It _is_ reassuring, knowing that Arthur is here and with him, knowing that Arthur hasn't lost hope, even at a time when nothing seems to be going their way. Looking at him now—smiling at Merlin like a mischievous child, eyes shining—Merlin can imagine why his men are prepared to follow him to the ends of the earth. Merlin would follow him to the ends of the earth and beyond, if that's what was required of him.

They sit together in companionable silence for a while. Merlin can feel his spirits begin to rise, despite the chill wind and the fact there is no assurance whatsoever that they will _not_ end up in the same place the following evening.

And then, as it would happen, it begins to snow.

+

A flurry of white, whirling downward as the skies break open, with the express intent—Merlin is certain—to bury them. 'I don't believe this,' Merlin says, even as Arthur springs to his feet and tugs at Merlin's hand until he's on his feet as well. 'We have to find shelter,' Arthur says. 'Come on.'

There's only one place nearby that would offer adequate shelter.

'Arthur, that cave—' Merlin tries to protest weakly, but he can't find the words. The snowflakes melt where they touch his bare skin.

'Do you have a better shelter in mind?' Arthur says, impatient.

Merlin can't.

'Then don't be an idiot,' Arthur says. 'Come on.'

The cave isn't very far away from where they are, but even the small distance feels interminably long as he dashes after Arthur, heart hammering in his chest. The snow crunches underneath his feet, soaks through his clothes and sticks to his eyelashes.

Once they're safely inside the cave, Merlin places his hands on his knees and gasps like a fish out of water. He's soaked to the bone. His fingertips are numb. It hurts to breathe.

It takes him a while to regain his breath. When he does, Arthur says, 'Are you all right?'

'Yeah,' Merlin says, and promptly forgets to breathe as he takes in the sight before him: Arthur, bare-chested, tugging his boots open. His discarded shirt lies in a pool of water on the floor of the cave, along with his sword and assorted weaponry.

'Good,' Arthur says. 'Now hurry up and make the fire.'

'Yeah,' Merlin says again, trying to clear his head. He's seen Arthur's bare chest countless times before this, there's no earthly reason why he should stare at him so, like a besotted fool. Whatever enchantment they stumbled into on that fateful day is long gone. Merlin can feel its absence, just as he had felt its presence that day, watching, probing, underneath his skin.

Merlin isn't certain why he finds it _disappointing_. It's not something he wants to think about. Such thoughts are madness.

He focuses on casting spells instead, but that poses another problem. His hands are icy, fingers cold and without sensation. The chill seems to spread all over, creeping through his veins until his limbs are heavy, weighed down by ice. It's a simple spell, but Merlin finds himself fumbling, hands shaking with the effort.

'What's wrong?' Arthur says, frowning.

'A little cold,' Merlin says. 'M-my hands.'

Arthur steps forward and takes hold of his hands in one swift motion, gathering them between his own. His hands are surprisingly warm for someone who has just made his escape from a magical snowstorm. An evil, magical snowstorm, designed by someone—something, perhaps the island itself—with a truly twisted sense of humour.

Arthur rubs his palms against Merlin's own, gently at first and then a little more vigorous; dips his head and breathes hotly on Merlin's hands.

'Better?' he tells Merlin, whose expression must be giving away some of the astonishment he feels, because Arthur snatches his hands away, saying, 'I had a nurse who did this to me when I was small,' appearing, Merlin thinks, somewhat defensive. 'It helps.' His eyelashes stick together in a way that draws attention to his eyes, and Merlin cannot help but stare, like a besotted _idiot_ , before he forces himself to look away and says, 'I know. Thank you.'

His hands are warmer now, and so are certain other parts of his body, despite the chill of the soaked clothing.

Magic or no, there is something about this miserable cave that makes him ache and want. Perhaps it's just the proximity, the two of them in a small, confined space. Perhaps it's the memory of everything that transpired between them the last time they were here.

The spells come easier this time, and in a matter of few moments, their clothes are blissfully dry, and the fire is made. Merlin settles down in front of the fire, drawing his knees up to his chest.

'Are you still cold?' Arthur says.

'A little,' Merlin says.

This time, Merlin does not even attempt to hide his surprise as Arthur comes to kneel right behind him, thighs bookending either side of his hips. He places his hands on Merlin's on his shoulders, thumbs drawing small circles on his shoulder blades. 'Sit still,' Arthur says, breath hot on Merlin's ear. Merlin can't think of doing anything _but_.

Arthur's hands are deliberate, _spellbinding_ in the way they move over Merlin's back. He can feel a flush creep up his chest, spreading to his face, his ears, which, no doubt, are very red right now. If he was a little cold before, he's very, very warm now.

Merlin nearly starts when a hand slides underneath his shirt, tracing the length of his spine. 'I— _Arthur_ ,' he says. It comes out as a squeak.

'What is it?' Arthur says.

'I'm warm now,' Merlin says. 'You don't have to—' He can't quite bring himself to finish the sentence.

Arthur's hands pause, but he doesn't pull away altogether. 'I'm not going to do anything you don't want, Merlin,' he says, his voice low and even. 'I'm not in the habit of taking advantage of my friends.'

Merlin slips out of Arthur's grasp and turns around to face him. 'That's not what I meant.'

Arthur says nothing, and Merlin says, 'We need to talk,' urgency creeping into his voice.

'So talk,' Arthur says stiffly.

'The enchantment,' Merlin says. 'That night.'

'What about it?' Arthur says.

'When we first walked into the cave,' Merlin says, 'I could feel its magic, inside me. Watching me.' The words, bottled up for so long, spill out in a rush now. 'Magic like this, it's very powerful. It can look into the darkest depths your soul and take the shape of what you want most. It can drive a person to madness.'

'What you want most?' Arthur says sharply. 'You mean—'

Merlin turns his gaze to the floor, unable to meet Arthur's eyes.

He knows all about keeping secrets, and this is a secret he's held onto for a long time, a secret he's held very close to his heart. And now Arthur has brought it out in the open, and Merlin doesn't know what to do with that.

It's an eternity before Arthur clears his throat and says, 'I felt it too.'

'You what?' Merlin says, staring at Arthur in disbelief.

'I said, I felt it too,' Arthur says. 'The enchantment. I didn't know how it worked, but I felt it.'

Merlin can't help but gape at him, mouth falling open in a rather undignified manner. 'We were both in the cave, Merlin,' Arthur continues, appearing somewhat annoyed. 'Why would you assume you were the only one affected?'

'You, you, you're—' Words are hard to come by, so Merlin has to settle for shaking his head instead. He's thought about it a thousand times, played out the events in excruciating detail, until they are etched in his memory, indelible. This is an option that dared not cross his mind. Some things, Merlin knows, do not bear contemplation.

In response, Arthur cups Merlin's cheek and kisses him, hard and fierce and desperate. The kiss feels like a culmination of every look, of every small touch and all the unspoken words hanging between them ever since that fateful night.

'But how—' Merlin begins to say when their lips finally part, but Arthur cuts him short, 'I'm going to order you to shut up now.'

So Merlin does.

+

Merlin wakes up with his arms around Arthur, warm and absolutely sated. He unwraps himself slowly, careful not to rouse Arthur.

It's a beautiful morning, bright and golden, not a single trace of snowfall anywhere. It's as though nothing happened. Merlin can't say he is surprised.

He makes his way to the stream, feeling inordinately cheerful. He washes his hands and his face, splashes water down the back of his neck. He will, perhaps, feel less cheerful later, when they undertake an entirely fruitless trip around the forest, only to make their way back to this place again. Perhaps he won't mind—he's grown fond of that cave.

And that is when he spots the lion, lounging regally on the other bank, looking, Merlin thinks, bored out of its mind.

4.

'I don't like this,' Merlin says. 'The last time we tried tracking that lion, we ended up completely lost. We have to try and get back to the seashore.'

'No,' Arthur says.

They've gone over this many times now, but Arthur has chosen this very moment to rival his father in sheer pig-headedness. Perhaps there's a reason why Gaius has grey hair. At the moment, Merlin certainly feels like tearing out his own.

'We can set up a trap,' Merlin wheedles. 'We can set up a trap right here, if you wish.'

Arthur merely shakes his head, stubborn. There's something about his countenance that makes Merlin try one last time. 'What's this about?' he says, lowering his voice. He touches Arthur's hand with his own. 'Why are you so obsessed with this?'

Arthur looks almost embarrassed when he says, 'It'll lead us to something. I just have a feeling.'

+

Later that day, Merlin finds himself wishing they had followed his initial proposal to find their way back to the beach—or failing that, spend another night in the cave—instead of paying heed to Arthur's _feeling_ about the creature leading them to _something_ , which ended up being rather accurate. That something, of course, was a lot of trouble, but by the time Merlin is able to figure _that_ out, he's pinned to a giant tree—one of the many imposing ones that surround the small clearing they found themselves in, while on the creature's trail—and rendered immobile, by magic more powerful than he's able to counter. He really hates the foliage in this island.

And then the lion begins to speak.

Merlin is used to conversing with a giant, scaly lizard, so he's only moderately surprised. Arthur, however, appears somewhat shaken. To his credit, he doesn't drop his sword when the lion says, in a low, gravelly voice, 'You're a brave man, Arthur Pendragon. But you should lower your weapon. Your sword cannot harm me.'

'What are you?' Arthur demands, 'Did you do this to Merlin?'

'I did,' the lion says, 'but I have no intention of killing him. In fact, you should thank me for saving your lives.' The lion sounds extremely smug, much like the dragon does when it thinks it's being very clever. Merlin _does not_ like smug magical creatures which can speak.

'How about letting me go, then?' he says, at the same time as Arthur says, 'I have no idea what you're talking about.'

The lion opens its mouth as if to answer, but then it shakes its head and says, 'Forgive me. This form is so inconvenient for conversations.' And then it transforms into a person—a man, tall and fair, somewhat familiar-looking. 'The lion's brain. It interferes,' he says, apologetic, as though that explains everything, and extends a hand to Arthur, 'You can call me Llew.'

A sorcerer, then. A very powerful one at that. On second thoughts, Merlin thinks he would have preferred it if he were a smug talking lion instead.

'So arrogant,' Merlin's captor—Llew—says when Arthur refuses to lower his sword and grasp the proffered hand. 'You're a brave man, Pendragon, but your arrogance will be your ruin.' Merlin thinks he sounds rather arrogant himself. 'Your arrogance offended my brother and nearly led to your death. I trust you'll be more careful when you speak with me.'

'Your brother?' Arthur says, incredulous.

'Yes, yes, my brother, Dylan,' Llew says, waving an impatient hand. 'You met in Devil's Gate. Apparently he took a fancy to your ship, and you insulted him.'

'That drunken sot was a sorcerer?' Arthur exclaims. Merlin thinks back on the altercation in Devil's Gate—how like a simple, drunken fool he seemed, and how they all dismissed him as a man of no consequence.

'A god, actually. The waves in these seas are his domain,' Llew says. Merlin cannot even find it in himself to be shocked anymore. It was only a matter of time before they went up against a divine being. 'Your sorcerer was very impressive against his waves,' he continues, smiling, 'so I asked my dear brother not to drown you and brought you here instead.'

'What do you mean?' Merlin says, struggling against his invisible restraints. It's no avail. 'Why?'

'You're a powerful sorcerer, Merlin. More powerful than you realise. I've been watching you all these days,' Llew says, still smiling. 'I could use someone with your strengths by my side.'

'That's not going to happen,' Merlin says.

'I was afraid you were going to say that,' says his captor. 'That's why I've decided that only one of you may leave this island. Come with me, and Pendragon will leave unharmed.'

'No,' Arthur says, before Merlin even has the opportunity to open his mouth. He takes a step closer to Llew, jaw clenched, gripping the Excalibur tightly in his hands.

'No? But I'm quite determined to have him,' Llew says.

'No,' Arthur says, drawing even closer. 'You can take me instead.'

'What would I do with you, Pendragon?' he says, sounding highly amused. 'Brave as you are.'

'Merlin's a bumbling idiot,' Arthur says. 'He'll be of no use to you.'

'You are Camelot's future. Your people look up to you,' Llew says. 'You would abandon them to serve a god, all for the sake of a friend?'

'He won't,' Merlin says. 'Let him go. _Let him go_.' Llew's restraints are exceedingly powerful, but they're not inviolable. Merlin can feel them begin to give way— _slowly_ , almost imperceptibly—against his will. They faced one brother and lived to tell the tale—he's not going to succumb to the whims of this one, either.

'Merlin's right,' Arthur says, inching closer. 'I won't.' He aims the sword at Llew's throat, steady. 'You'll let us both go.'

Merlin concentrates harder, nearly shaking with the effort. This time, the restraints begin to weaken at a considerable pace, and then it seems as though the tree itself is fighting his attempts to break free, drawing him closer, strengthening its embrace.

'Lower your weapon, Pendragon,' Llew says. He appears a little baffled at Arthur's non-compliance, as if he's not quite accustomed to mortals disobeying him. Which is a good thing, Merlin thinks, because he doesn't know just how pig-headed Arthur can be, or how dangerous he is when he's in a mood like this. 'Your mortal instruments have no effect on me.'

'A good thing it isn't fully mortal, then,' Arthur says. 'A dragon breathed on it.'

A number of things happen after that, in rapid succession.

Arthur lunges forward, his blade catching Llew's shoulder, drawing blood. Llew lets out a horrible scream, and in the next moment Arthur is being thrown backwards onto the ground, as though by an invisible force. 'You hurt me,' Llew says, as he stands clutching his bloody shoulder. He appears stunned, as though the possibility had never crossed his mind. 'It really hurt.'

It occurs to Merlin that he might not have _ever_ been hurt. Even divine beings have weaknesses. Which they're now going to use against him.

'I'm going to hurt you again,' Arthur says, struggling back to his feet and springing at him again. 'It will hurt even more.' This time the blade pierces his side, making him shriek.

A wave of Llew's hands, and Arthur lands on his back again, this time with a loud thud. 'Tear him apart,' Llew yells, sounding positively deranged. 'Let him feel pain.'

Merlin feels the ground shake. And then the trees—including the one that's currently trying to swallow him whole—begin to move, branches extending forth like fearsome weapons, reaching for Arthur. Merlin really, _really_ hates the foliage on this island.

He can feel himself sink further and further into the tree's embrace, his limbs slowly being crushed and his chest feeling the strain. It hurts to breathe. A little more of this, and this tree will be his tomb, while Arthur is trampled to death by a host of its compatriots. Merlin is not going to let that happen.

In his desperation, Merlin closes his eyes and concentrates on the tree that holds him captive; on the source of its sustenance, its magic—the earth itself. He lets his magic reach out and spread itself through the tree, mingling with sap and tangling with roots, reaching into the earth, drinking its magic in, _in_ , until he can feel it in his veins, humming with energy.

A moment. Two. And then he lets it all out, pulling out of the tree's grasp with all his strength. He lands on all fours with a painful thump, and immediately springs to his feet, removing one large branch swiping at Arthur—who is on his back, sword in hand and still fighting, valiant—with a blast of fire, and then another one. He moves Arthur out of the way of the a third branch by throwing himself onArthur and then shielding him with his body, while his palm touches the ground and reaches out again, drawing strength from the earth.

He releases the magic in a desperate discharge, and the branches pause mid-motion. The trees return to their normal immobile selves.

Llew is nowhere to be seen. Merlin has a feeling he won't be returning anytime soon.

'Get off me,' Arthur says after a while.

'I just saved your life,' Merlin points out, making no effort to obey.

'You don't have to be so smug about it,' Arthur says.

In response, Merlin kisses him, cupping his face with his hands. 'We just defeated a god,' he says when they break apart, grinning.

'So we did,' Arthur says.

5.

They slowly limp their way back to the stream. After a while, Merlin slips under Arthur's left arm and takes some of his weight.

'We should try and get back to the beach,' Arthur says, once they've drunk water to their fill and washed their cuts.

Merlin agrees. 'We still have to figure out a way to get off this island.'

'Light another beacon,' Arthur says. 'A bigger one this time.'

As it turns out, getting back to the beach, now that Llew's enchantment has been lifted, is no longer a problem. Neither is finding a way to get off the island, in fact, because as soon as they step onto the beach they're treated to the curious sight of half the Pridwen's crew lounging about in the sand, as if on a vacation. There's Lancelot, sparring with Kay, wearing his shirt about his waist and laughing. There's Percival, stretched out on the ground, his eyes closed. And there's Gwaine, sitting in the sand, playing cards with—of all people— _Morgana_.

Lancelot drops his sword when he spots them, rushing forward to give Arthur—now limping heavily—a hand. 'How did you get here?' Merlin says, trying very hard not to gape.

'We've been camping here for the past week,' Lancelot says. 'We were assisted by, ah, the Lady Morgana. I was worried I'd never see you again.'

'The _pirate_ Morgana, you mean,' Arthur says, glaring at Morgana. 'What is _she_ doing here?'

'I told you to stay out of trouble,' Morgana says with a matching glare. 'Do you know how many favours I had to pull to get them out safely?'

'Since when do you save Camelot's ships?' Arthur says. 'I thought you took great pleasure in _drowning_ them.'

'I'm a pirate,' Morgana says. 'I do as I please.'

'We've been sending out search parties every day, to no use,' Lancelot says. 'Where were you?'

'It's a long story,' Merlin says. 'But we just defeated a god.'

+

They set sail when the wind is favourable. Lancelot demands he stay in bed, but Merlin ignores him, slowly making his way to his favourite spot on the ropes. He's exhausted, and sore all over. He's never been gladder to be on a ship. Sea voyages are not so bad.

Morgana departed a little while ago on her own ship—the _Magnificent_ , once the pride and glory of Uther's fleet and now a pirate ship, with black sails—with a rather evil smirk and a grudging admission from Arthur that he did owe her a favour, even if he did no favour to pirates, ever. He did, however, stare at her departing ship in a rather forlorn fashion.

He's less forlorn now as he takes a seat beside Merlin, their shoulders touching. 'What are you thinking?' Arthur says.

'I think I'm getting a hang of this,' Merlin says. 'Ships.'

'Do you think you'd mind being on one every now and then?' Arthur says, nudging him with his shoulder. He appears hopeful, and Merlin thinks, really _absurdly_ beautiful.

'No,' Merlin says. 'I don't think I would.'

+

  


 **Notes**

1\. [Dylan](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dylan_%28god%29) and [Llew](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lleu_Llaw_Gyffes). Needless to say, their relationship to their counterparts in this story is more tenuous than the show's relationship to history.

2\. The animated trees are derived from [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cad_Goddeu).

  



End file.
